“Six and a half,” he said, looking at the speed indicator.

Nathaniel thought they could do better in a wind like this (it seemed Aunt Phrony had blessed them already, giving them a brisk nor’wester in the middle of June) and told his brothers to let out the sails a little more. The boat picked up a fraction of a knot. The breeze was holding steady at fifteen, and there was some discussion, as they clipped past the Saddleback beacon, about whether to set topsails. The discussion went on among the four, and within Nathaniel himself, for there was a duality in his nature that the sea brought out. His conservative voices argued that it was better to err on the side of caution, while his daredevils prodded him to clap on all the canvas the craft could bear. The result of both the external and the internal deliberations was a nice parliamentary compromise: the jib topsail only.

Saying that he needed the exercise, Will went forward, set and trimmed the sail, and came back again to read the log: seven and a quarter. Westward, beyond the Brimstone Islands, Vinalhaven showed varying shades of green as sunlight and cloud shadow played over its forests. It looked much closer than five miles away, the nor’wester having scoured all summer haze from the sky. A thought of Constance, there in the big yellow house across the thorofare from Vinalhaven, ghosted through Nathaniel’s mind. His expression must have betrayed him (he did not have his mother’s or half brother’s talent for masking emotion; every passing mood registered immediately on his face), because Eliot slapped him on the back and said, “This trip was your idea, big brother, so cheer up and forget her.”

Eliot hopped below and brought up his guitar.

After strumming a few bars to let everyone know the tune, he sang out, with a revision of one of the female names in the actual lyrics:

Sing so long to Connie and so long to Sue,

Way you Rio!

And you who are listening, sing so long to you,

For we’re bound to the Rio Grande.

It was a fine, lively, capstan chantey, a tune of departure, and Eliot’s voice did it justice. They sang the chorus together, pronouncing “Rio” in the old down-east sailor’s way, Rye-o.

And away Rio. Way you Rio!

Sing fare ye well my bonny young girls,

For we’re bound to the Rio Grande.

His fingers moving skillfully over strings and frets, Eliot led them into the next verse, which he’d also revised to suit local geography:

Oh, you North Haven ladies, we will let you know,

Way you Rio!

We’re bound to the south’ard, O Lord let her go,

For we’re bound to the Rio Grande.

And the chorus again, sung heartily into the wind and to the fitting accompaniment of crackling bow spray:

And away Rio. Way you Rio!